


Touch

by TheLightFury



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Bedsharing, Draco provides, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Harry Needs a Hug, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hurt/Comfort, Just a sprinkling, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Roommates, draco has feelings, omg they were roommates, showering together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:00:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28746603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLightFury/pseuds/TheLightFury
Summary: “Harry?” he demanded. Nothing but the sound of running water met his ears. “What’s wrong?”Potter gave a faint shake of his head but nothing more. Draco frowned. The next moment, for some godforsaken reason, all rational thought Disapparated to Africa.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 14
Kudos: 209





	Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to Vukovich for the beta!

Why the bloody fuck was it impossible for Potter to remember silencing charms existed?! 

Draco groaned as the splish, splash, splatter of the shower pulled him from the depths of his slumber. He’d barely bloody blinked, for Merlin’s sake, and now the Moron Who Lived had ruined his sleep, again! Honestly, who needed to shower at 1am? A racoon?!

As another loud _splosh_ of water hit the floor, potential curses for his roommate sprang to Draco’s mind, severity rapidly increasing when nature rudely urged Draco from his warm cocoon. It didn’t matter that the air was warm on his bare skin thanks to the muggle central heating the speccy idiot insisted on using. Nor did it matter that his toes sank into the heavenly carpet Perfect Potter had insisted on purchasing. It mattered that he was _awake_ and _out of bed!_

Flinging the bathroom door open, Draco immediately made for the toilet, shooting a venomous—if pointless—glare at the shower cubicle as he did so. If the pillock was going to wake him up, he could at least tolerate him using the facilities for a moment or two. But of course, the wanker didn’t even seem to bloody notice! 

“Don’t mind me, Scarhead,” Draco spat, reaching for the flush that had a delightful habit of dousing the occupier of the shower in freezing water. “Enjoy your _steam._ ”

But just as he went to press the handle—

“Sorry…”

It was quiet. And unsteady. And _broken._ Instantly, Draco turned.

“Harry?” he demanded. Nothing but the sound of running water met his ears. “What’s wrong?”

Potter gave a faint shake of his head but nothing more. Draco frowned.

“Harry, talk to—” Draco’s voice died in his throat; even through the haze of steam, the sight of shoulders heaving, too fast and too jagged, was clearly visible. The next moment, for some godforsaken reason, all rational thought Disapparated to Africa. 

Harry shivered as cooler air hit his back; as the drumming of water grew louder; as Draco joined him. “Wh—what are you—?” 

“Shush, Potter,” he murmured, welcoming the warm droplets rushing to his toes—though, truthfully, he had no idea either. “You’re upset.”

“Nightmare,” Harry mumbled, then gasped as Draco gently caressed clenched muscles, trying to calm every tremor. They loosened and jumped repeatedly, warring beneath his touch. “S’fine, I shouldn’t have—”

“Shhhh,” he soothed, quickly curling his arms around his saviour, squeezing when soft keens escaped Harry’s lips. “You should have told me.” 

He should have. It was their unspoken yet agreed arrangement. The golden rule. The non-negotiable, automatic reaction to nightmares. And if nine times out of ten it led to an instinctive pulling back of the covers, soft words, and firm, soothing hugs that lulled each other into the best sleep they’d had in weeks, confusing Draco more and more each time as Potter’s embrace became increasingly addictive, then so be it.

“Din’t wanna wake you.” Potter all but collapsed against him, pressing his head to Draco’s neck, clawing him close.

“Two points to Gryffindor for stellar stealth skills,” Draco rolled his eyes, tightening his grip. A whimpering ghost of a laugh vibrated through his chest. Then, before Harry could open his mouth to apologise yet again, as the insufferably selfless git would, he added, “you’re safe now”.

With another soft mewl, Potter moved in his arms, latching on more firmly, nestling in more closely. Gently, instinctively, as he cradled him close, one of Draco’s hands travelled his back. Seeking. 

Slowly, he documented each knot, each lump, and, before his sense could return from it’s holiday, he began kneading a muscle into submission. 

“... Draco?” Harry whispered.

“Is this okay?” he asked, pausing. A swallow bobbed on his neck. Steam curled around them. His heart beat loudly in his ears. But with a slow, unsteady exhale, a slight nod of assent brushed against him. Letting out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, Draco gave a single, light squeeze, before resuming. Harry’s breath hitched. 

Barely breathing, he manipulated the knot, working it lightly but firmly. It flexed beneath his touch, clenching, relaxing, clenching again, until—with a soft grunt—it finally unfurled. Lips lifting into a smile just a little, Draco moved to a spot below Harry’s shoulder blade before starting again. As another muffled gasp of relief caressed his ear, tentative fingers stroked the small of his back; a silent thank you; a silent plea. 

Drowning in steam, Draco squeezed gently before moving on again, quickly falling into the mindless rhythm of kneading, soothing, searching. With each broken knot, a small sigh, a slight shiver, or a feather-light stroke thanked him, and with every stroke, Harry grew heavier against him. As Draco quietly triumphed over the final tense spot, trembling knees caught his attention.

“Here.” He pulled Harry closer, carefully guiding them to the floor and settling Harry’s shoulder to his chest. Instantly, he buried his face in Draco’s neck. Swallowing past the flutter in his chest, the welling of warmth, Draco squeezed him gently before blindly chasing his instincts.

“You can’t get out of the shower without taking proper care of yourself, Potter,” he murmured, carefully lathering his finest shampoo in his hands. As a soft frown formed against his neck, Draco tangled his fingers in Harry’s hair, starting at the roots. Rapid blinks of surprise tickled his neck as slowly, deftly, he worked in the shampoo. As he did so, Harry gave a slow, deep exhale: music to Draco’s ears.

Little by little, Draco got lost; lost in coating Harry’s thick, unruly hair in shampoo; lost in combing small tousels with his hands; lost in eliciting soft shivers. But finally, as the lather threatened to seep into his very skin, he sighed, massaging Harry’s favourite pressure points once more before summoning the shower-head. 

“Keep your eyes closed,” he warned softly, gently tipping Harry’s chin up. Unquestioningly, Harry obliged. But just as Draco was about to begin rinsing, he saw it. 

Tears.

Coursing down Harry’s cheeks. Mingling with drops from the shower. Ripping a hole in his heart.

“Harry,” Draco breathed, catching one before it could fall. “What’s—?”

Emerald eyes, wide and shimmering, flitted to his before dropping. 

“I—I—I’ve never—You’re—I—I just—”

“Shh, breathe, Potter,” Draco rushed, squeezing his shoulders. “Do you want to stop?”

“NO!” Hands grabbed Draco’s desperately. “No, please, I—” Harry took a deep breath. “No-one’s ever done anything like this for me before,” he swallowed, voice miniscule. “It’s so… nice.”

For a moment, Draco simply stared, drowning in the shame, the desperation, the raw vulnerability in front of him, before managing to swallow.

“Keep your eyes closed,” he repeated hoarsely. 

He wasn’t prepared for the overwhelming rush of emotions flooding Harry’s eyes the moment before they dutifully closed. Neither was he prepared for the dangerous swooping of his heart—nor the sudden urge to kiss that stupidly scarred forehead repeatedly. His fingers trembled. 

As soon as they reached Harry’s hair again, Harry trembled. Inch by inch, his shoulders lowered. Second by second, Harry gave hard swallow, after hard swallow. Drop by drop, tears continued to fall. His own throat tightened.

"Now, I know this is a foreign concept to you, Potter," Draco began, forcing his voice to remain level. "But shampoo isn't the only thing your hair needs."

Stomach fluttering violently at the miniscule yet glorious twitch of a smile that lifted Harry’s lips, Draco carefully squeezed the excess water from his hair before combing conditioner through it. Gently teasing tangles apart, quiet sniffles mingled with soft sighs; Draco fought to slow his pounding heart.

“There,” he murmured, finally satisfied every strand was coated. “Leave it to work for a minute. Perhaps then your hair will finally resemble something other than a bird’s nest.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Harry’s forehead sought out it’s perch against Draco’s neck.

“You love my hair,” he murmured, soft and shy. The well of warmth in Draco’s chest threatened to erupt like a river bursting its banks.

“Poppycock, Potter,” he sniffed, earning himself a faint huff of laughter. “And here I was thinking I’d managed to deflate that brobdingnagian ego of yours.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“Insolence!” Draco’s stomach flipped at the smile pressing against his collarbone. “Insufferable, vulgar, intolerable insolence! Why, I’ve never been so insulted in all my life. Such a cur, you are. You wound me, Potter.”

“You’re such a drama queen,” Harry murmured with an audible eye roll. 

“And you’re such a pillock,” he retorted. But as another gentle snort hit his neck, Draco couldn’t stop a grin lifting his lips. 

Basking in the gentle thrum of victory, he let his head rest against the tiles, drowning in the luscious scent and warmth, when:

“Thank you.”

Draco frowned, the rushing of water doing nothing to drown the raw emotion ringing in Harry’s voice, ripping through his heart.

“Hush, my Noble Gryffindor,” he murmured, allowing himself to nuzzle him closer, just this once. Then, because all other words lodged themselves in his throat, “Let’s wash this out then go to bed, hm?”

A small nod nudging at his collarbone was all the confirmation Draco needed. Moments later, dry and slightly shivering, Draco's fingers tangled with Harry's on their own accord.

"Bed," he murmured simply, warmth welling in his chest once more as Harry merely squeezed his hand in answer. 

Pulling back the quilt to let Harry climb in first, Draco paused for just a moment, memorising the way his eyes fluttered shut, the soft groan of pleasure he gave, before crawling in beside him. The soft mewl that caught his ears as Draco gathered him close, nestled Harry's head to his chest, and drew Harry's arm around his waist sent his heart somersaulting again.

"Sleep, Potter," he whispered, gently smoothing his fingers across Harry's back once more. 

"You too…" Harry sighed, already half-asleep. 

"I will," he smiled. 

But as soft snores began drifting through the room, Draco's smile faded. His stomach jumped and fluttered, his thoughts raced, and heat burned every inch of his skin, as the urge to kiss Harry's forehead, squeeze him close, and never let him go steadily fanned from a flickering desire to a fierce flame. 

_Fuck._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed! Come find me on Tumblr :D @april-thelightfury115


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